


All The Fun Of The Fair

by TheAstronomer



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Blow Jobs, Carnival Rides, Cotton Candy (Food), M/M, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 00:34:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19140022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAstronomer/pseuds/TheAstronomer
Summary: Arthur and Ariadne are vacationing in London.  Ari persuades Arthur to visit a carnival, against his will, and he has an experience he did not bargain for.  Since when did hot, tattooed ride operators get so pushy?  Arthur was never a fan of carnivals until now...





	All The Fun Of The Fair

**Author's Note:**

> First foray into A/E. A challenge.  
> Thank you Wysi, for beta-ing this for me! And as always, for being my cheerleader <3

It was the sound that hit Arthur, even before the smell – a faraway rushing roar, followed up by a dull, rhythmic thudding.  Music. Some kind of amplified voice, distorted and buzzy, and screams of laughter. Far across the field in Hackney Downs, between the scorched yellow grass and the offensively blue sky was the irregular outline of the carnival; silhouetted like the hazy battlements of the hottest British summer since records began. Apparently. And Arthur’s first British funfair (not carnival, he reminded himself, they were called funfairs here). He and his friend Ari, visiting London, were told about this phenomenon in a local pub, close to where they were staying in Hackney.

“Did you know, dear Ari, there’s street in Hackney known as Murder Mile?” Arthur had said accusingly from a prone position on his narrow bed earlier, while Ari fiddled with the tiny kettle in their crappy twin hotel room.  A restorative cup of genuine English tea before they set out on their pilgrimage to find the funfair.

“Oh really?” she returned brightly. “Catchy.” Not biting. He tried again, stabbing a finger at the screen of his iPhone XR.

“It says here: “‘Why does Regents Canal run through Hackney?’”   

Ari put down the insubstantial kettle and turned, an eyebrow raised, as Arthur intoned triumphantly:

“So it doesn’t get shot!”

“Hm,” breathed Ari, a tiny smile quirking her mouth. “Makes sense. Cookie?”

“You mean ‘biscuit’? And no, they’re disgusting.”

It was Ari’s suggestion to stay in Hackney; cheap and cheerful, she claimed, and authentically London, of course. Ari liked to climb deep into the grit and grime of a place, while Arthur preferred to skate over the more genteel surface; usually they met somewhere in the middle. But he did agree that it left more budget for sightseeing, souvenirs and the other silly fripperies of a vacation.   

So this was how they found themselves trailing through the parched grass of Hackney Downs towards the tacky, pulsating carnival - funfair-  which lay at its heart. Arthur had never been one for carnivals, or amusement parks, even as a kid. Too much: too loud, too bright, too … everything.  Such an air of frenzy about them which had frightened the soft, young Arthur.

As they approached the gated entrance, the smell finally hit Arthur and Ari like a wall they had to break through: a potent waft of sugar, frying onions, hotdogs and diesel.  Arthur’s stomach gave a lurch. At the pay booth, a bored teenage girl in a neon outfit relieved them of their money and fitted them both with wristbands which proved they had actually paid to enter the ninth circle of hell and were entitled to be there with the other imps of Satan.

“More like the third circle: gluttony,” said Ari lightly, holding out the bag of cotton candy she had just bought.  “Can you believe they’re not allowed to sell it on sticks anymore – health and safety! And lighten up, Arthur. It’s meant to be fun.”

“Fun,” repeated Arthur glumly, his fingers closing around a tuft of the pink, squeaky fuzz of spun sugar and feeding it mindlessly into his mouth. He did enjoy cotton candy, that was something at least. He watched Ari surveying the scene in front of her, hands on hips, her perky little head like a bird’s cocked to one side. Arthur felt a flood of affection toward her, despite his irritation at being strong-armed into this situation. She forced him out of his comfort zone, which was rarely a bad thing.

Arthur himself also cast his eye over the clientele of the funfair. A lot of children, a _lot_ of over-excited children, followed around by harassed parents attempting to corral them toward rides or desperately placate them as they jigged about impatiently in long queues. Also, a lot of _very_ sunburned people, Arthur noted. Had the Brits never heard of sunscreen!? A particularly prominent style appeared to be men in tight, white tank tops and shorts dangling unflatteringly below the knee, complemented by stripes of burned skin across shoulders and down shins. Arthur felt somewhat smug at his own lightly tanned skin, which he knew was set off perfectly by the lilac short-sleeved polo shirt and carefully pressed navy chinos he was wearing. He ran his hand reverently over the buttery-soft tan leather of his favourite bomber jacket. It was too hot, really, for a jacket like this, but Arthur was prepared to sweat to look good amongst the great unwashed hordes of Hackney.

The hot spatter of what Arthur quickly realised was vomit hit him before he had the chance to dodge neatly out of the way, as Ari had just done. She had anticipated what the wailing, green-faced child was about to eject as it spun in a ride above where they were standing.

“Oh... GOD!” he spluttered, mouth stretched in horror. A mess of unidentifiable... _stuff_ was streaked down the arm of his beloved jacket. Ari was trying valiantly to look horrified, but there was a telltale glitter of humour in her eyes.

“Oh Arthur, oh no. I might have some tissue in my bag... hang on...” Ari rummaged in her backpack, producing a pack of paper tissues and began to swat at his arm with one, disgust curling her top lip.

“Ahhh ... Can you...” She held the tissues out to Arthur and retreated a few steps. Arthur, who had been frozen in horror, shook himself out of it, and attempted to swab the worst of it off.  

“This coat was... _so_ expensive.” He knew his voice was whiny but couldn’t help it. “Jesus, it stinks, I can’t wear this.”

“Look, let’s fold it up and put it in my bag. We'll find a dry cleaner later.”  

Ari handled the ruined coat gingerly by her fingertips while Arthur tried to look grateful that the beautiful garment was being bundled up into a backpack with a small London child’s vomit soaking into it. He noticed Ari side-eyeing him as she handed him an antiseptic hand wipe. (Was there anything she didn’t have in that satchel?!)

“Arthur, you are looking real good right now. Have you been working out?” She grinned broadly. The minx knew Arthur had been haunting his local gym back home, where a new personal trainer had recently appeared, all tousled hair and muscles upon muscles. Her attempt to distract him from the current horror.

“Why, yes, Ariadne dear, I have!” Arthur would play along — he might as well. He picked up his bag of cotton candy and pushed more into his mouth. A lock of his dark, slicked back hair fell over one eye. He was starting to feel decidedly dishevelled. _Rakish_ , he corrected himself, smoothing it back into place.

“Ok, what first? Ferris wheel, bumper cars, the ... uh, Wall Of Death?” Ari squinted at what appeared to be a spinning circular cage which had its screaming occupants pinned to the walls by gravity alone.

“Let's build up to the goddamn ‘Wall of Death’, Ari, you’re lucky I’m here at all. And _don’t_ stand underneath it! Bumper cars?”

They drifted towards the flashing, honking ride where the cars from the last session were just starting to slow to a halt.

“Ha, look, they’re called Dodgems here, Arthur!” exclaimed Ari, pointing to the word festooned in circus script above the enclosure housing the bizarre little cars (which had always reminded Arthur somewhat of beetles). Ari was delighted, as usual, with the grammatical quirks and differences between British and American English and repeated: “Dodgems, mate!” in a terrible London accent.

They clambered into a red car which had a badly rendered portrait of Britney Spears painted on its smooth, domed hood in garish colours. All of the cars had awful celebrity pictures on them and Ari hooted with laughter at an Elvis whose face had melted grotesquely down one side of the hood.

“Oh it’s so incongruous, seeing you in a Britney bumper car, Arthur,” said Ari, settling into the passenger seat. “It’s amazing! You drive this time around?”

“ _Only_ time around,” he grumbled, but felt a little thrill all the same, as a warped, amplified voice told them sternly to belt up, travel in the same direction, and not to stop suddenly. At the wail of the starter klaxon, Arthur felt the power surge as he jammed his foot onto the pedal and deftly spun the steering wheel, propelling the little car jerkily into the maelstrom of the other vehicles circling the track. Arthur took a strange pride in his ability to weave adeptly through the other Dodgems, twisting the wheel skilfully as Ari was thrown about, shrieking with laughter.

“Who knew! You’re a master Dodgems operator, Arthur,” she squealed as he darted them past a car operated by two squawking teens and decorated with the face of Gene Simmons and his freakishly long tongue. On a sudden mischievous whim, Arthur spun the car against the flow of haphazard traffic and began to weave them through it anti-clockwise.

“Arthur! You maverick!” snorted Ari. “You’re breaking the sacred law of the Dodgems!”

 “ _Oiiiiiii_!” came a hoarse voice, deep and loud, somewhere behind them. There was a hard thump as someone jumped onto the back of their car and a heavily muscled, tattooed arm reached down between them to jerk the steering wheel out of Arthur’s fists and guide them skilfully into the side of the enclosure.

“What you playing at, mate?” The same voice, still with a rasp to it but softer now.  

In the interim, Arthur had come to his senses, abandoned by the Lord of Misrule almost as soon as he had been possessed by him, and was flushed with embarrassment.

“Ah, I’m sorry. I was just...”

“Just playing silly buggers, wasn’t you?”

Arthur twisted around in the compact seat to look sheepishly at his apprehender and was confronted by a face of quite unexpected beauty looking down at him, its brows knitted together into a frown. Arthur swallowed drily. A vision. _A goddamn vision_. There was a slightly grubby white tank top, it was true, but the torso it covered was neither obscured by a layer of flab nor striped in burnt red. There were tattoos. A lot of them, snaking around the arms and peeking cheekily out from the neck of the tank top. A sharp, not unpleasant, tang of fresh sweat drifted down to Arthur's nose and he swore if he’d had furry ears, they would have pricked up in that moment. Ari jabbed her sharp little elbow into his ribs, her usual trick when he was staring at a man too long. Arthur caught his lip between his teeth and shrugged.  

“Sorry, it was stupid.”

“Yeah, real stupid,” the vision drawled in a not-too-shabby impression of Arthur’s accent. Arthur also noted how the unusual green-hazel eyes flickered lazily over his form, crouched dumbly in the tiny beetle-car with Britney Spears’ accusatory face on it, before a slow smile pulled red, plump lips across his face. _Obscene_. Those lips were obscene; hidden ever-so-slightly in a scruff of light brown stubble scattered across his jaw. Then there was a scraggy cigarette, produced from God knows where, clenched between crooked teeth and a thumb jerked over his thick shoulder.  

“C’mon then, out you both get. You and your girlfriend are on a first warning. Seriously, though, a kid broke his arm pulling that kind of shite recently. You look old enough to know better.” Again, the insolent eyes travelled slowly down Arthur’s body as he unfolded himself from the ridiculous vehicle. The other cars had also stopped to disgorge their occupants and soon a scrum of bodies surrounded them.

“She's not my—”

“Oh, I’m not his—”

“Girlfriend!” they finished together.

There was a cocked eyebrow, endearingly scarred, and Mr Tank Top shrugged, blowing out a stream of smoke.

“OK then. But don’t be such a wanker next time, eh?”

“Oh sure. Sorry, again,” stuttered Arthur.

“I saw you,” said Ari smugly, as they walked swiftly away from the scene of the crime, Arthur's face still burning. “Oh, he’s still looking,” she added as she glanced behind them.  “Got those amazing guns folded across his chest, and watching us go. Or watching... _your ASS go_!”  

“For God’s sake, Ari, stop it.  That was like being told off by a cop, or something.  A teacher!”

“Hot cop. The teacher everyone has a crush on.”

“Yes, he had a certain something,” admitted Arthur irritably.

“So hot.”

“OK shut up now.  Let’s do the … Waltzers? What is with these ride names?”

“Tilt-A-Whirl is also pretty stupid?”

“That’s _our_ stupid, Ari.”

Why did Arthur feel so discombobulated? _He_ was usually the one blindsiding attractive men with a mixture of impish charm and fairly aggressive pursual, but with this one, he felt shy and awkward.  Around them, the zing and buzz of the fair continued relentlessly, a multi-coloured, multi-pronged assault on the senses which left little room for calm reflection as to why this man had left Arthur so unusually flummoxed.  

“OK, Waltzers. Quick, let’s grab a seat!”  Ari darted, gazelle-like, to jump into one of the cars.  Unlike Tilt-A-Whirls, the Waltzers were under an enclosure, most likely to compensate for frequent British rain, but seemed otherwise to be broadly similar: the cars were designed to clatter around on an undulating track, sporadically spun by operators who hopped between them.  They also represented the absolute peak of Arthur’s thrill-seeking on carnival rides – he knew he could tolerate them, but would absolutely draw the line at the Wall Of Death.

“Keep ahold of that backpack,” said Arthur tetchily as the thick metal lap-bar was closed down over them, securing them to their fate. Arthur felt his heart give a lurch as he realised just who was fastening them in, as Mr Tank Top leaned over and spoke softly into Arthur’s ear:

“I’m in control of this one, mate.  Name’s Eames, by the way.”

A heavy pat on Arthur's shoulder sent a jolt of sheer pleasure shooting through his frame and he stammered in return: “Arthur. I’m Arthur.”

But he was not sure his had voice carried sufficiently as the ride had already begun to noisily clank its way around its rippled circuit. Arthur’s fists whitened where he clutched the safety bar, and his buttocks involuntarily tightened on the plastic seat that he was already starting to slide about on. He had a feeling he knew what was going to happen next, as did Ari, who exclaimed: “I think that we are in for.. _.fuck.... eeeeeee!_ ”  

The words were snatched from her mouth as their car was suddenly set spinning so quickly that Arthur felt sure it would have sent them sailing into actual orbit had it broken free of its earthly shackles. At first, he could only semi-crouch, his head bowed against gravity trying to force him into the back of the seat, vaguely wondering if trainee astronauts started off in Waltzers spun by Eames rather than a NASA G-force centrifuge. But gradually, pride and sheer muscle induced him to brace himself against the safety bar in such a way that he was able to catch a blurry glimpse of Eames where he stood closest to Arthur’s side of the car. He would attempt to face the bastard out, at least, powerless as he was to do anything else. Each time the car slowed down, Arthur and Eames stared at one another, Arthur attempting a stern but stoical expression, and Eames unashamedly grinning. Ari, unaware of this silent battle of wills, was screeching and giggling madly as she was catapulted around, every so often wedged painfully up against Arthur's hip on her haphazard trajectory.  

 _You bastard_ , Arthur thought, unwilling to attempt speech for fear of an unseemly shriek escaping from his lips. _You absolute dick. You are_ loving _this._ But this fact did not stop Arthur also enjoying the way the muscles in Eames’ arms bunched and flexed under their complex inked fretwork, or the tightening of his pectorals under the scant material of the tank top. And his thick thighs, pressed tightly against the taut cloth of his cargo shorts. The way the tendons in his beautiful neck were corded with exertion. As the car slowed from the latest turbo rotation Eames had sent it on, Arthur saw the strain on Eames' face, the concentration which furrowed his brow, the beads of sweat on the same brow... _fuck, he was really putting effort into this endeavour_.  

Arthur wondered, _is this Eames’ orgasm face_? With that thought spiralling deliciously in Arthur's addled mind, Eames made a colossal final effort, with an audible grunt, to send the car into its most intense spin yet, and Arthur finally allowed himself a muted gasp, as his dick began to harden.  

 _Is this my kink now_ !? He thought desperately as Ari hyperventilated with joy next to him. _Will I only ever get a hard-on in a Tilt-A-Whirl spun by a hot carnie?_

It was all too wonderful: the blur of sound and colour and the vigour and brawn of Eames’ beautiful form – a cacophony of a sensual experience which Arthur could never have guessed he would be contending with in a funfair in London on a hot summer’s day.

The Waltzers gradually clattered to a standstill and Arthur had a passing glimpse of Eames on the static central reservation, bent over with his hands on his knees, panting heavily.  He willed his unexpected erection to subside before he had to totter past on unsteady legs.

“Well!” exclaimed Ari, groping about in the footwell for her bag. “That was … something.  And he—” she added, pointing to Eames, “is _knackered,_ mate.”

“Mm,” muttered Arthur, struggling to his feet and attempting to push his subsiding hard-on discreetly down with the heel of his hand. “He should be.”

Arthur felt like he just wanted to escape the entire funfair now; he was feeling almost post-coital.  He wasn’t sure he had ever been quite so consumed with lust as he was and it made him feel oddly vulnerable.  But then he was there again, Eames, staring pointedly at Arthur’s crotch and smirking. God, he was relentless.

“Enjoy that, did you?” Eames said.  He held a hand out to Ari and hoisted her out of the seat. “I’m Eames. Sorry about that, love, I had to teach him a lesson.” He crinkled his eyes at her, in a very charming way and Arthur could see that Ari was, predictably, won over instantly.  

“Not at all.  It was very invigorating.  But I do need to go and try out these delightful ladies’ port-a-potties over here now. Arthur, I have my phone. I’ll catch you later.”

A pointed look and even a wink as she disappeared into the crowd. Arthur sighed – Ari had all the subtlety of a kick in the balls in these situations.

“Fag?” said Eames suddenly and Arthur’s eyes widened in horror until he noticed the badly self-rolled cigarette he was holding out.   

“I don’t,” said Arthur, waving it away.

“Oh, healthy type, are we?” Arthur tried very hard not to get turned on again by that voice – its pitch and timbre like a siren’s song, luring him in.   

Eames was leaning against the external wall of the Waltzers, which had started up again with a fresh set of passengers.  The rumble and vibration of the ride was causing some quite mesmerising ripples to rampage up and down Eames’ body where he lounged and Arthur suspected Eames was well-aware of this fact.

“Don’t you have to...” Arthur indicated the spinning cars. “Do your thing?”  

“Nah. I can come and go.  Let’s have a little wander.”  Eames turned and began to walk into the gap between the Waltzers and the ride next to it — a burly white rabbit leading Arthur, like Alice, into Wonderland.  He hadn’t waited for Arthur to reply, or even glanced back at him, because he knew Arthur would come, as if on an invisible string. Eames had a slightly bow-legged swagger, which Arthur would often think he spotted in crowds for a long time afterwards.

 _Was this really happening_? Arthur thought, as he followed Eames through a labyrinth of surprisingly large caravans which were pitched behind the rides. A close-knit shantytown of sparkling vehicles, clean laundry flapping on ropes strung between them like cat’s cradles.  People were sitting on the steps of these homes, chatting, eating, laughing, as if the commotion of the fair was just a faraway dream someone else was having. None of them batted an eyelid at Arthur. It was like another world, and Eames a mythical creature.

Finally, they came to a bank of grumbling generators and Eames stopped, turning to look at Arthur. There was no-one around. Effectively the engine-room of the fairground, it was hot and stank of diesel.

“This is like the beating heart of the fair, not very pretty but keeps it alive” Eames said, patting the side of one of the generators almost fondly, and Arthur raised his eyebrows at the strange eloquence.

“Not very environmentally friendly, though?”  _What the hell were they talking about!?_ Arthur found himself staring at Eames’ mouth again.

“Yeah well, no-one gives a shit about that at a funfair, do they, mate?  They come here for excitement, fun, to crap themselves on the Wall of Death.  Not to recycle their plastics and measure their fucking carbon footprint.”

“My name’s Arthur.”

“I know.”

Then Eames was in front of Arthur, jostling him up against a nearby tree and Arthur was so surprised that he was as acquiescent as a puppy – normally he enjoyed a little tussling-as-foreplay, but he was wrong-footed quite literally and stumbled back onto the jagged bark behind him.

“You’ve got candyfloss on your cheek, Arthur,” said Eames slowly and, just as slowly, leaned in, stuck his tongue out and picked the cotton candy off Arthur’s face, the warm smudge of his lips trailing heat onto Arthur’s cheekbone.  Arthur felt his knees shake and loosen as his thighs simultaneously tightened. A strange but very welcome onslaught of sensations which made him clutch at the tree trunk and give out a low, deep moan.

“I fucking hate this stuff though. Sickened myself of it as a kid. Look.” Eames slid his forefinger into his mouth and lifted his plump upper lip to reveal a gold tooth nestling behind his left incisor.  Arthur wanted to lick the tooth and then bite the lip which hid it, but instead he stuttered: “Well, I guess too much of a good thing is never a great idea.”

 _Am I ever going to say something that isn’t boring and stupid_ , Arthur thought in anguish.

“Are you always so sensible, Arthur?”  

And Arthur was about to reply, “Clearly not,” when his mouth was smothered by Eames’, his head forced back against the tree. The kiss was long and deep and made Arthur forget where and who he was, like all the best kisses. Eames’ fingers were pressed into the nape of Arthur’s neck and they tightened there as Arthur fumbled for Eames’ shorts, dipping under the waistband and scrabbling at the hot skin there.

“Oh no you don’t.”  Eames’ grip was strong around Arthur’s wrist, holding him like manacles.  “Steady now, patience.” He gave a throaty chuckle. “We’re just getting to know one another, right?”

“Right, right,” mumbled Arthur. He could still feel wetness on his cheek from Eames’ mouth and he had tasted cotton candy and tobacco laced in the kiss – a strange combination.  His tongue had been firm, stroking the ridge of Arthur’s teeth while his hand had kneaded the taut muscles of his neck. As yet, their hips were held carefully apart, mainly by Eames’ positioning and Arthur wanted to yank him closer: Arthur felt so greedy, as greedy for Eames as Eames had been for cotton candy as a kid.  He felt ragged and slightly delirious.

He also realised that Eames was coolly observing him, holding himself back from where Arthur was semi-propped on the tree trunk. Eames’ head was slightly tilted, almost as though he was deciding what to do next. Arthur felt loose-limbed yet alert as he watched Eames’ eyes travel to his neck. Arthur turned his head, angling it up slightly and waited. In the background, the generators continued to hum and Arthur was grateful for the sound which obscured his embarrassing moaning as Eames pressed in and sucked on his neck, an unrelenting erotic bombardment which had him writhing.

Eames broke away suddenly. “How long you here for, Arthur? You’re on holiday, right? You don’t live here?”  He ran his finger down the side of Arthur’s neck, smiling at the little quiver Arthur gave.

_I will move here tomorrow, if it means you keep kissing my neck._

“Uh. Another week.”

“That’s time.  That’s plenty of time.” He almost seemed to be talking to himself. Arthur wondered if Eames wanted to talk a little, beforehand.

“Er, have you been a carny long?”

A big hearty guffaw from Eames. “What the fuck is a carny?!”

“A carnival worker? What you do?”

Eames was suddenly serious, shaking his head.

“Listen, Arthur.  I’m a showman. My dad was a showman and his dad, and his dad.  You get the idea? We are from a long line of Irish Travellers, our lot.  Some of us on the fairs are Romani, some ain’t. I was born on the road, this is what I’ve known my whole life.” He shook his head again. “Fucking carny.”

“Showmen. Right,” said Arthur. “Sorry.”  He reached for Eames’ arm and touched the very awful tattoo of a leprechaun on his shoulder

“So this is for your Irish heritage?”

“Irish Traveller. Not quite the same thing.” Eames sighed, and kicked at the root of the tree. “Alright, family heritage talk over.  I’m a gypsy, you’re a septic tank. It’s fine.”

“A septic—”  Arthur gaped.

“Tank. You’re a yank, mate. It’s all good. Get here, now.” Eames pulled Arthur into him, pressing himself tight against Arthur’s trembling body and began to kiss him again, slow and hard, his tongue lapping and sucking like Arthur was a drink, the scrape of his stubble rasping over Arthur’s smooth face. And Arthur certainly felt like he was liquefying, right there, into a pool of desperate desire, but his cock was absolutely made of iron, and was pressed painfully against the front of his oh-so-carefully ironed chinos, a proud semaphore for his raging lust. He could feel Eames’ dick too, a ridge nudging against his hip.  Eames rucked up Arthur’s T-shirt and ran his hand over his stomach, slotting his fingers into the waistband of his pants and Arthur felt like the top of his head might explode, just at any moment. When Eames’ fingers grazed the tip of his dick where it was poking out of his underwear, Arthur was sensitised almost to the point of pain. Deftly, Eames unbuckled Arthur’s belt and loosened off his pants from his hips.

“You’ve done this before,” panted Arthur, as Eames shoved the pants and underwear partly down in one slightly rough movement.

“Maybe a few times,” replied Eames nonchalantly, crouching in front of Arthur and looking up at him with a wicked grin. “Relax, mate. This is supposed to be fun.” The second time Arthur had been told that today. Eames patted Arthur’s tense thighs, trapped slightly within the confines of his clothing, before wrapping his mouth around the top of his dick and his fist around the base. Arthur’s fingers clenched convulsively in the longish hair on the top of Eames’ head as he sucked Arthur deeply into the back of his throat, quickly establishing a rhythm in which his fist and mouth worked in glorious union. _He’s done this before a few times too_ , was perhaps the last coherent thought Arthur managed to formulate.  Eames’ mouth was beautiful _and_ talented as it turned out, a winning-beauty-queen of a mouth.   Bizarrely, the thing which had Arthur shooting hot spunk into the back of Eames’ throat slightly quicker than he anticipated, was the thought of that gold tooth, with Eames’ lips wrapped around it, and those lips in turn wrapped around Arthur’s cock. _Jesus H. Another new kink._

“ _Fffffuck!_ ” spat Arthur, only vaguely aware of the sound of his phone shrilling persistently from his back pocket as the last spasm of his orgasm passed and he clung to Eames’ shoulders like a drowning sailor to a rock in a shipwreck.

“Your phone, Arthur,” said Eames calmly, standing up and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as though he _hadn’t_ just made Arthur come like a freight train.  Arthur fumbled for the phone, feeling slightly ridiculous, plastered there sweatily against the side of a tree, his cock detumescing rapidly.   _Ari._ It went to voicemail, thankfully, before Arthur managed to take the call.

“Ah, it’s Ari. My friend.”

“Probably checking you’re OK after you went off with a dodgy looking character, eh?”

“Oh, she’s used to it. Er, I mean -”

Eames shook his head, laughing. “I know, mate.  Don’t worry about it.”

Arthur reached for Eames. “Can I return the favour?”

“Your friend will be looking for you. She’s on her own out there.”

He was right of course.  Arthur shouldn’t leave Ari out there, alone. He started to pull up his clothing.  Eames was looking at him again, in that considered way he had earlier.

“You should come back tonight. Funfairs are different at night,” he said, producing another roll-up cigarette from a pocket and lighting it up.  “More dangerous. People do things they wouldn’t normally do, when it’s dark. D’you know what I mean? They go further.”

“Do they?” said Arthur, smoothing back his hair again. He glanced at his phone. There was a text from Ari on the lock-screen: _WHERE ARE YOU, YOU HORNDOG?!_ And underneath that one: _I JUST WON A GODDAMN GOLDFISH AT A STALL. HELP ME!_

“You’ll be around tonight then?” asked Arthur.

“I’m always around,” shrugged Eames, running his hands down the front of his chest, then propping them on his hips. “All the fun of the fair, right here.” He grinned and Arthur laughed, loud and joyfully.  He felt suffused with _joie de vivre_ , loose-limbed and satiated.

“I’ll see you later, Eames.”  Arthur turned and began to make his way back towards the hubbub of the carnival; Alice making her way back out of the rabbit-hole. Beyond the caravans, he could see the Ferris Wheel in the distance and headed towards it.  Maybe he could persuade Ari to take a whirl in it. They were here to have fun after all.


End file.
